


Homecoming

by Embracingtheplotbunnies



Series: New Targaryen Dynasty [1]
Category: game of thrones
Genre: Character Development, Dragonstone, Gen, No pairings - Freeform, Uncertainty, dany centric, introspective, season 7, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embracingtheplotbunnies/pseuds/Embracingtheplotbunnies
Summary: Dany's thoughts as she arrives on Dragonstone and returns to her first real home.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> As you can see, this is not Jonerys. I'm working on the next installment in my 'series', but with finals at school I've been busy. 
> 
> This is a bit different from anything that I've posted before; it's much more of an introspective piece, based on the trailer that just dropped (!). I feel like we don't really see enough of Dany on the show to see her as anything more than confident and self assured, but I imagine that she has uncertainties and fears just like anyone else. 
> 
> I don't own ASOIAF or Game of Thrones; all right to GRR Martin and HBO. 
> 
> Enjoy! And as always, for more updates on when I'll be posting next or to drop requests, follow me at blue-roses-in-a-wall-of-ice on tumblr!

She knows they’ll make landfall even before a sailor atop the crow’s nest calls “Land ahead!” She can’t say how she knows, but she does-the knowledge is a strange and throbbing certainty inside of her that she can’t get rid of, this idea that she is going home and her entire life so far has led up to this point. It’s not just the idea that Aegon the Conqueror lived here when he planned to conquer Westeros and her family has lived here for generation upon generation, or even that it’s yet another step made in her pursuit of the Seven Kingdoms-she was born here, though she can’t remember it, and it was the first home she ever knew. 

She stands in front of her wardrobe for a long time, deciding what to wear-her summer dresses had to be switched out halfway across the Narrow Sea, when the winds from Westeros first chilled the air-but nothing seems exactly right. Eventually she decides on a black dress and a red cape in the colors of her house; once she’s dressed, she takes a seat in front of the vanity and really looks at herself. She wonders what the lords of Westeros will see when they look upon her-what the mad queen, Cersei Lannister, will see when she burns to death in Drogon’s flame. Will they mistake her for a young girl or will they see her for the dragoness she is? 

Perhaps even more importantly, is she ready for what will happen when she takes the Iron Throne and reclaims her birthright? Is she prepared for everything to change?

She thinks back on Tyrion’s words, back in Meereen, nearly lost in the days of nonstop preparation for their voyage-'This is actually happening'. And he’s right. It is. Once upon a time, she never expected it to; it was always Viserys who would be returning to the Seven Kingdoms in glory. In a way, she’s just as surprised as everyone else at how quickly fate changes. She’s excited, of course; she knows now she’s a far greater ruler than her brother would have ever been. 

And yet, that same tingle of uncertainty runs through her-the same feeling she’s had on and off ever since she’s left Meereen. The feeling of having everything she’s ever wanted within reach and yet it seems to be coming at her far too quickly-there’s no time to prepare, no time to reconsider, it’s just...happening. Soon she’ll be the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms, male or female. Even after everything she’s gone through, even though she knows she wants it beyond reason, more than she’s ever wanted anything else in her life, it still frightens her sometimes. So much rides on her shoulders. She has everything to lose-and everything to gain. 

In this moment she feels impossibly alone, and above all perfectly certain that no one in the world understands how she feels-not even Tyrion. No one can understand how ecstatic she is, how nervous, how frightened, how confident, how fearless...a million things at once, even though she knows she should be feeling only happiness. 

She’s going home-but what if home isn’t hers anymore?

All of the pieces are finally coming together and still she worries. What will it feel like to sit upon the throne of her ancestors? And what happened to the girl she left behind on the Dothraki Sea-the one she lost bits and pieces of in Qarth, in Astapor, in Meereen? The wide eyed and innocent dragonet who had to be sacrificed so the queen could be born? 

Irrational as it seems, sometimes she misses that girl. Yes, that girl was afraid and naive-but there are times now when she still feels afraid and naive, she just hides it better. Sometimes she wishes she doesn’t always have to be so strong, so watchful, so isolated-but that’s the life of a ruler. As a queen, she must live for her people-her own desires must become second to the needs of her people. 

For just a moment she imagines going into the cabin next door and saying to Tyrion "I don’t want to be the queen anymore. I grew up in a home in Braavos-a large house with a red door and a lemon tree outside the window. I want to find it. I want to live in it, for the rest of my days. We need to break off the alliances, we need to disband the troops... I want to go home. I don’t want to claim my birthright."

But she’s the only one who can. And she is home. This is where her mother took her last breath, when she took her first. 

Queen Rhaella-what was she like? She’s heard some stories-the Queen was kind, dutiful, and tender hearted. She loved her children, but her pregnancies were hard and painful-when Viserys was born, the King would not allow her to touch him for fear her touch would harm him. She died giving birth to her and Viserys had never forgiven her for that. But she doesn’t remember her mother’s face, her eyes, her smile. Sometimes, halfway between waking and reality, she thinks she can. She wonders what her mother would think of her now-no longer the frightened girl she once was, but a queen in name and deed? How can she ever know? 

The boat rocks around her, but she barely notices. After so many days at sea, she’s more used to the rocking of the ship than she is of walking on dry land. 

Tyrion once asked her if she was afraid and she was-of course, she still is. How can she even pretend not to be, when so much is at stake? Not only her life, but the fate of her dynasty. She is the last Targaryen, she has borne no heirs-if she dies, the Targaryen name dies with her. Her dragons die with her. And perhaps, she reasons, death is not the only thing she’s scared of. She was scared when she dismissed Daario and felt nothing-not relief, not sadness, just a numbness inside of her. She sometimes still feels that numbness when she least expects it-chatting with Missandei or one of her handmaidens, while breaking her fast with Tyrion, when she spends hours on Drogon’s back at night looking out at the stars. She gives and gives to everyone else-is she giving away herself? Can she eventually cut herself away in bits and pieces until there’s nothing left of her, until she’s cold and unfeeling and nothing touches her? How can she know? Everyone is so busy telling her who she is-a conqueror, a queen, the last scion of a dead dynasty-and she doesn’t know how someone can possibly be so many things at once. 

She’s the blood of the dragon, of course...but sometimes it feels more of a burden than a birthright. It makes her untouchable, but it also isolates her. 

Maybe good rulers don’t care about the semantics like that. 

She closes her eyes and tries to remember approaching this island on a ship much like the one she’s on, still germinating in her mother’s womb, unaware that she’d lost almost all the family she’d ever know-and then the day she was born, when the wind howled around the ramparts and great waves crashed against the stone breakers and ruined her father’s fleet. She tries to remember her mother’s face, but she can’t. All she has are pictures, images, stories. Nothing concrete and nothing permanent.  
Maybe on Dragonstone she’ll reconnect with who she is-she’ll be forced to, probably, in a castle steeped with so much history.  
She fiddles with the dragon necklace around her neck and its dark eyes stare up at her. It’s not that she wants a new life, exactly-she wants the throne now, more than she’s wanted anything else, especially with a mad queen terrorizing her people-but she wonders sometimes if this is the life she would have chosen for herself if she had to choose again. She probably would because it is ultimately very rewarding; but some days it almost feels empty and she almost feels empty. And the gods, if there are any, won’t soon forget everything she’s done to get to this point. 

Her mind drifts to her upcoming arranged marriage, as it usually does. She doesn’t know who she’ll marry; the name is just a question mark in her mind, the face a dark shadow. Tyrion has talked about suitable husbands, but she can’t remember them all. Many left no impression on her; children of small houses with even smaller banners. Even when she was a child she knew that the stories the minstrels sang about love-Florian and Jonquil and even Aemon the Dragonknight-were just that. A fairy tale love was for children and it didn’t happen to commoners, much less to nobles. She will marry someone advantageous and it won’t matter how revolting they are; they will wed and she will bear their children because it has to be done. Because that is what is necessary to preserve her legacy. 

Still, a thrill of excitement shoots through her. She’s coming home, her real home. And yes, it’s not the house with a red door, but it’s almost as good. 

There’s a knock on her cabin door and she hears Tyrion say “Your Grace, we’re almost there if you’d like to watch us sail in.”

She pulls on a coat, readjusts her necklace, and opens the door. Tyrion is also newly dressed in fine dark livery, his hair mussed from the wind-probably from standing on the top deck watching the dragons, as he is wont to do.

“Did you ever go to Dragonstone?” They’re walking up the stairs to the top deck now. “Before Robert’s Rebellion?”

“Only once or twice, but I was very young. I can barely remember it. A very grand castle, yes-but the stone dragons both fascinated and terrified me. They looked like avenging gods, watching our boat come into port.” 

“What was it like inside?”

“Cold and drafty mostly-it wasn’t used much back then-but it was filled with an immense sense of power. It was as though the very stones themselves knew of their power and majesty, as if they had a sense of their own history.” They reach the top of the stairwell and one of her soldiers holds open a set of double doors so they can walk out. 

Almost immediately the wind almost knocks her over-although she’s used to it; it’s been doing that since they left Meereen. The sky is a sunny, cloudless blue-at odds with the chill in the air. The waters of the Narrow Sea are blue and black, depending on how the sun strikes it, and filled as far as she can see with all the ships of her fleet. But the mainland of Westeros is what captures her attention. It’s a vibrant green, a green she’s never seen in the deserts of Essos-from the trees bending in the wind to the grass covering the jagged cliff tops, knifing down to the water’s edge. Everything looks alive, even though it’s all standing still. 

And Dragonstone…

She feels a knife of...something in her chest-almost like pain and almost like memory, but not quite either. It’s impossibly large and grey, carved intricately with dragon upon dragon. It looks like a refuge for the dragonlords of Old Valyria, and she wonders with a start if Aegon the Conqueror sailed into this very harbor. Is she retracing her ancestors’ exact steps, hundreds of years later? 

But there is no shock of recognition, no lightning strike of realization. Nothing that tells her exactly who she should be. She’s still alone, and the burden on her shoulders seems more prominent than ever. Although it’s not a burden; it’s her identity. In a strange way, it feels exactly like she thought it would but it’s also completely different. 

The boat docks on a sandy beach and they take a rocky path up to the great gates. It crunches under their feet and she knows she’ll be picking rocks out of her shoes tonight-it seems easier to think about that than the monumentality of what she’s about to do, how close she is to reaching her goal. Tyrion tries to keep up small talk for a while but eventually trails off, realizing correctly that she wants to be alone with her thoughts. They pass a few people who all bow reverently; most of the people on the island are Targaryen loyalists. If Illyrio was really talking about anyone when he said the Westerosi were praying for a Targaryen return, it would be the people of Dragonstone-who lived with the dragonlords for hundreds of years.  
Everything she’s done has prepared her for this moment, for this day. 

The gates themselves aren’t as intricately carved as the castle, but the sigil of House Targaryen has been chiseled onto the front. It’s been broken time and again by Baratheon axes but the dragon isn’t completely gone; one cobalt eye looks out at her as she runs her hands across the torn stone. 'This is your birthright', it seems to say. 'These are your people.'

I know, she thinks. I am a queen. I am the queen. 

The gates open and she sees the castle beyond them-the castle of her ancestors and her castle, as well. Her birthplace, the place where she acquired the name Stormborn-the place where she brings the storm now. 

She kneels on the stone, feeling it’s only right. She might be a queen now, but she’s still very small in the eyes of her ancestors-when compared to Aegon the Conqueror, Visenya, Rhaenys, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, Good Queen Alysanne, Viserys I, Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed. And there she prays, for the first time that she can remember. She doesn't pray to any gods; she doesn’t believe in them. Instead, she prays to her ancestors-she prays for safe passage, for wisdom, for strength and courage, and kindness for her people. She prays that she will not make the same mistakes her father did. When she looks up again there are tears in her eyes and she doesn’t remember where they came from. The dragons are circling around the castle’s topmost spires, dragonsong rising into the air, where the wind will hopefully carry it all the way to King’s Landing. What will Cersei say when she realizes that the dragons have returned? 

She hopes it strikes fear into her heart, and that she feels exactly what Princess Elia, Princess Rhaenys, and Prince Aegon must have felt when they learned the Lannisters were on their doorstep. She hopes she realizes that her reign is over, as short as it was. 

The reign of the Dragon Queen is beginning, and Targaryens will reign forever. 

She stands and Tyrion steps forward and gestures upward. “Welcome home, my Queen.” 

She smiles, genuinely, and for a moment it feels like she is exactly where she’s supposed to be, uncertainties and all. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” 

She follows him through the gates and onto another path, twisting up to the castle and the rest of her destiny-whatever comes next.


End file.
